


an art form

by summerofspock



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 1920s, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Flirting, Historical References, Jealous Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-27 00:14:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21382921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: Noticing Aziraphale’s now empty glass, Crowley swept it from his hand and said, “Let me buy you a drink.”Aziraphale tried to think of the best way to wave him off. What sort of excuse would work best? Maybe he should just leave, take the cold, lonely walk back to the bookshop, and pretend the night had been nothing more than wretchedly boring.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 286





	an art form

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mintly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mintly/gifts).

> written for @mintly as a thank you ficlet which abruptly turned into 3k words

Looking despondently at his drink, Aziraphale sighed. His gimlet was getting warm. The club was nice, if raucous. Aziraphale found it easy to ignore the _ particular _ goings on in dark corners and listen to the music, watch people dance. Honestly, it was just good to see people enjoying themselves after all the grief that came with the Great War. Though Aziraphale supposed that was human nature, the tendency to find joy in anything. 

Aziraphale had been to Club 43 a handful of times since it had opened. It wasn’t very far from his shop, but if Aziraphale was honest with himself, it wasn’t exactly his scene. He’d only come this evening because he was invited by a nice young man named Charles who he was coaching through the completion of this fantastic little dictionary. It was set to be the most complete dictionary to date and Aziraphale liked having these sorts of pet projects where he really got to enjoy the fruits of his labor without having to report back to Heaven on the matter.

Unfortunately, Charles was rather fond of his drink and his men and he didn’t work nearly enough. Aziraphale would have tried to work with the other editor of the Oxford dictionary but he was in Chicago of all places and Aziraphale wasn’t exactly interested in going to America. Certainly not.

Looking across the club, Aziraphale watched as Charles finished telling a story to a group of three enraptured men and they all burst into laughter loud enough that Aziraphale could hear it even over the steadily growing sea of patrons between his solitary corner and the bar. He was fairly certain Charles would go home with the brunette. Charles preferred darker hair.

“Aziraphale, Aziraphale,” an achingly familiar voice said from his right, as if admonishing him for not saying hello already.

Aziraphale nearly dropped his drink. “Crowley! What are you doing here?”

After the incident with the holy water, he and Crowley had barely spoken to each other. Occasionally, Aziraphale would send a letter regarding their Arrangement and even more occasionally, Crowley would send one back. It had begun to feel like they had never been friends. Aziraphale hated how the idea made a pit form in his stomach. He had thought their friendship meant more to Crowley but apparently it wasn’t even worth an apology. And here he was, years without contact, and Aziraphale had hardly expected to run into him _ here _ of all places. Though he supposed it made sense. Club 43 was known as quite the destination for debauchery and indulgence. It was only a matter of time before Crowley showed his face for some demonic business or other.

Crowley slipped into the chair beside him, looking very handsome with his slicked back hair. It was harsh and made the angle of his cheekbones even more devastating. How had Aziraphale forgotten the details of that face? The sharp lines of it, the way his nose hooked at the end.

“Just back from the Continent,” Crowley drawled, tilting his head back so the lights flashed over his sunglasses. “Finished helping an author publish his work. Brilliant if you ask me. A travesty that no one will like it. They’ll call it too bawdy. He’ll most certainly be arrested.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and Crowley made a wide gesture with his hands as if he were imagining a marquee. “D.H. Lawrence, pervert extraordinaire.”

Shaking his head, Aziraphale finished the warm end of his drink. As nice as it was to see Crowley, Aziraphale wasn’t going to sit around and wait for Crowley to bring up the subject of their fight. Or worse, pretend it never happened at all and just hope Aziraphale would forgive and forget. Well, not this time. Aziraphale refused.

Noticing Aziraphale’s now empty glass, Crowley swept it from his hand and said, “Let me buy you a drink.”

Aziraphale tried to think of the best way to wave him off. What sort of excuse would work best? Maybe he should just leave, take the cold, lonely walk back to the bookshop, and pretend the night had been nothing more than wretchedly boring.

“What’s fashionable these days?” Crowley asked, peering around as if to see what sort of drink was in the most hands.

Sighing because he was weak—what harm was there in one drink?—Aziraphale sat back in his chair. “I’m not sure if it’s fashionable but I’ve been drinking gimlets.”

Crowley gave him a wicked smile and Aziraphale sighed again. He remembered that smile. He might not have seen it for over half a century but he knew what would happen next. Crowley would get him a drink and then another, and then they’d end up in some corner laughing about some old tale. They had 6000 years of stories to tell and yet they often recounted their favorites more than once. He liked the way Crowley snorted when Aziraphale told him about his first time trying opium. But Aziraphale wouldn’t have it! He was angry with Crowley and regardless of—of _ fond _ memories, he deserved an apology. One drink and then Aziraphale would leave. He _ would_.

With drinks in hand, Crowley carefully wound his way back through the crowd, tongue poking out between his lips as he focused on avoiding wayward elbows. He looked ridiculous and adorable. No! Not adorable! Aziraphale did not think anything about Crowley was adorable, nor did he admire the way his legs looked in his trousers. He never, not in the last fifty years, spent time thinking about Crowley’s blasted laugh and the way it had always made Aziraphales heart do something traitorous and unangelic.

“So,” Crowley began, settling back into his chair and crossing his legs like he didn’t have a care in the world. “How’s business?”

Aziraphale took a fortifying sip of his drink. He could use it and then some. _ One drink and then you go_. “People leave the shop alone for the most part. Which was the point of the whole enterprise.”

“Ah,” Crowley said sagely, one corner of his mouth pulling back behind the rim of his drink. “Booming then.”

“And you?” Aziraphale asked for the sake of politeness. That’s what you did when you shared a drink with an old friend. Somewhere in the distance glass shattered and was followed by a wave of drunken laughter. 

“Nothing new to report, I’m afraid,” Crowley admitted. “Though this post-war hedonism is a treat.”

Aziraphale looked across the room as Charles slid his hand around the back of the brunette and pulled him close to whisper in his ear. Crowley followed the line of his gaze and asked, “Know him, do you?”

“One of my charges, so to speak,” Aziraphale said before Charles caught his eye and winked at him. Aziraphale gave him a small smile in return.

“Charges," Crowley repeated, the word flat and heavy. “Didn’t know angels mingled with humans like that.”

Aziraphale glared at him. He was allowed to have _ friends_. Just because Crowley wasn’t interested in putting effort into maintaining their acquaintance didn’t mean others _ weren’t_. “Charles and I are working together on a dictionary.”

“Well, introduce me then,” Crowley said, pushing himself up onto his feet. Aziraphale tipped back his head to look at him and from this angle, he looked austere, the lights of the club extending the shadows of his face. He looked like artwork. 

Aziraphale was about to make an excuse but the decision was made for him by Charles sweeping into the small corner with two men in tow. One was the young brunette that Charles had been whispering to and the other a lanky man with auburn hair. 

“Aziraphale!” Charles said, clearly a bit intoxicated if the way his cheeks were pink above the bush of his beard was any indication. “Who is this dashing fellow?”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley who leered back. _ Introduce me,_ he mouthed and Aziraphale ground his teeth. He should have stayed home. Or at the very least, left as soon as Crowley had taken the seat beside him.

“This is Crowley,” Aziraphale said politely, still glaring daggers at Crowley who stood and shook Charles’s hand.

“Oh, _ Crowley_. I’ve heard about you. You’ve quite the history with Aziraphale here,” Charles said with a knowing smile thrown in Aziraphale’s direction. What was _ that _ expression? There was nothing to _ know _ and he shouldn’t imply such a...such a thing.

“Yes,” Crowley said, nostrils flaring like he was trying not to laugh. “Quite the history.”

He said it like history was the most lascivious thing possible and Aziraphale felt his face burning. The gall of him! Acting like that.

“Well, this is Frederick,” Charles said, gesturing at the auburn haired man. “He’s studying literature. I thought you’d find that very interesting, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale, a bit numb and out of his body—this was not how he thought this evening would go—reached out and shook Frederick’s hand. The man seemed just as bewildered by this turn of events. Charles obviously had motives in introducing them to each other despite the fact that Aziraphale _ frequently _ told him he had no interest in pursuing such liaisons.

“And this is Sebastian,” Charles said magnanimously. “Sebastian, say hello, darling.”

Sebastian gave them both a muzzy smile and leaned closer to Charles, clearly very intoxicated.

“Has Charles been discussing his dictionary work with the two of you?” Aziraphale asked them both, not exactly expecting Sebastian to answer because he was both unbelievably drunk and far too caught up in Charles.

Frederick nodded, wide-eyed. He was a very pretty young man, straight teeth and soft looking mouth, tight curls sprouting from his head in a fashionably disheveled manner.

Crowley pressed close to Aziraphale to join the conversation. “Like words do you, Frederick? Literature?” he asked, popping each syllable in his mouth.

Frederick’s eyes grew impossibly wider—oh, he was very young—and he nodded. “I’m, er, studying poetry, Mr. Crowley.”

Taking a drink of his gimlet, Crowley pressed even closer to Aziraphale. Neck prickling, Aziraphale tried to think of the best way to put distance between them without being too obvious. His palms started to sweat.

“Any new favorites?” Crowley drawled and Aziraphale felt like he could no longer focus on anything except the warm line of Crowley’s body, the smell like juniper berries and lime juice from the gimlet.

Frederick smiled weakly, starting to look a bit nervous. “Yes, erm, Pound? Ezra Pound. American but...I don’t know. His works are wonderfully interesting.”

“Ah yes. _ The Cantos_.”

Aziraphale shot Crowley a look. Since when had he been keeping up with the poetry scene? He remembered a time when Crowley was the one to quote and rave about the latest artistic movement. But that had been back when Shakespeare was popular. With a pang, Aziraphale realized they hadn’t been able to discuss all the wonderful turn of the century work. They hadn’t been speaking. Technically, they still weren’t speaking. And yet...

“_ Say I take your whole bag of tricks, / Let in your quirks and tweeks, and say the thing’s an art-form, _” Crowley said, his voice lilting over the words. Aziraphale hadn’t heard Crowley recite poetry in years.

Charles laughed. “I see why Aziraphale keeps time with you. You’re as literary as he is. Did you know our boy loves to quote the oddest things? Sometimes I think he’s read every book in existence.”

“Surely not every book,” Crowley said, smirking at Aziraphale who glared back. Would it be too obvious if he kicked Crowley in the shin? Here the demon was, acting like they were old chums but he hadn’t even _ apologized_. Aziraphale was certainly not going to be the first to apologize. He’d done enough of that in their storied past, thank you very much.

“I try to stay informed. Unlike some people,” Aziraphale said meaningfully and redirected his attention to Frederick, idly noticing that Charles was whispering something in Sebastian’s ear that had made the young man turn very red. “Frederick, what do you plan to do with your degree? Are you also a poet?”

Frederick shook his head, making his copper curls bounce. “No, sir. I’d like to teach.”

“A very admirable profession,” Aziraphale said firmly. He moved to take a drink of his gimlet and realized it was empty. He frowned at the bottom of his glass which was plucked from his hand without warning and then Crowley was pressing both their glasses into Frederick’s hands. 

“Why don’t you get us another round?” Crowley said with an arched brow and Frederick stuttered something as he tried to handle the glasses. “There’s a good lad.”

Aziraphale watched Frederick’s retreating back and then turned to Crowley and hissed, “That was very _ rude_.”

Aziraphale should leave. He’d had his one drink with Crowley and he should leave.

Crowley bared his teeth, an expression Aziraphale knew preceded some cutting comment, but Aziraphale was going to say his piece before Crowley had the chance to strike.

“I don’t know why you’re here,” Aziraphale said in low tones, forcing himself to maintain eye contact, “but you’ve certainly made it clear over the last several decades that you’d prefer to keep anyone’s company than mine so perhaps you’d best move along. We can speak in another century or so when you decide it’s worth your time to apologize.” 

Crowley frowned, hands moving as if to touch him and then curling into fists which fell by his sides. “Angel, I—”

It was hardly what Aziraphale expected. When he struck with his words—a rare thing—Crowley always struck back. It was the way they were. They didn’t need to pull their punches because they understood each other. Yet here Crowley was, looking faded and torn instead of gearing up for a fight.

Frederick came back with two drinks but before Aziraphale could take one and hopefully down the thing in one go, Crowley took his elbow and steered him towards the dancefloor, band starting up with a not-too subtle snap of the demon’s fingers. “Let’s dance, angel.”

Too surprised to do anything but let Crowley drag him onto the dancefloor, he found himself surrounded by the breathless crowd as Crowley drew closer. Too close.

Aziraphale stepped away “I don’t—” Aziraphale began, cut off when he had to duck out of the way of an overenthusiastic elbow. “Crowley, I don’t dance.”

Crowley plucked a bottle of champagne from someone’s hand and popped the cork with a thought, taking a pull straight from the bottle before pushing it against Aziraphale’s chest. Standing stock still because he was _ not _ going to be manhandled into _ dancing _ of all things, Aziraphale drank deep from the bottle. It was decent stuff, Crowley’s pilfering clearly depriving someone who had good taste.

“How about we _ stand _ in the dancing area and get drunk?” Crowley proposed, putting one hand on his chest and pushing him against the nearest wall. Aziraphale felt Crowley’s touch like a phosphene, bright and disconcerting, even as Crowley withdrew and slumped beside him. “Thought you could use a convenient excuse to get out of there. Or were you interested in going home with our dear _ Frederick_? Your friend Charles seemed to think you were.”

“Goodness no!” Aziraphale said before taking the bottle back and drinking more. The bubbles popped their way down his throat, foreign as the growing sense of anticipation settling around them.

“Good,” Crowley said, yanking the bottle back. 

Aziraphale felt as if his skin was tingling, the sensation of blood rushing through his body. Crowley was jealous. Why was Crowley jealous? 

Aziraphale desperately wanted to ask but instead he said, “Why haven’t you apologized?”

“Why haven’t you?” Crowley asked carelessly, not looking at him and drinking again. Aziraphale watched the way his throat moved as he drank, the pale expanse of it like a canvas.

“I think I’ve missed you,” Aziraphale said, a rush of quiet words that he shouldn’t have said at all. He should have demanded an apology, gathered his words and hit harder. They fought and bickered and disagreed and maybe they were friends but they didn’t _ miss each other_. That wasn’t wasn’t part of this game they played, this back and forth. Missing each other was...it was…

“Come again?” Crowley said over the renewed volume of the brass section. He leaned closer, ducking his head so he could hear Aziraphale’s words, the sharp tang of his pomade flooding Aziraphale’s nose.

“Nevermind,” Aziraphale said quickly. He shouldn’t have said it in the first place. He didn’t—he couldn’t miss Crowley. They weren’t—

Crowley peered at him but didn’t press.

Aziraphale really should leave. He was pleasantly tipsy and he felt that if he drank anymore he would make some sort of awful mistake. Something like letting Crowley drag him onto the dance floor or start thinking how the champagne would taste in Crowley’s mouth. Peering through the crowd to see if he could spy Charles to make his excuses, Aziraphale stepped away from the wall, ignoring the inexorable draw of Crowley’s presence. If he didn’t step away now, he might not be able to.

“I think I should go,” Aziraphale said, turning back to Crowley and his breath caught in his throat.

Aziraphale had thought Crowley looked like art earlier that night. Something to hang on the wall of a museum, the abstract shapes of his face coming together like a Gauguin, beautiful in its perplexing imperfections. But here, in the low light, the floor growing sticky with spilled cocktails and champagne, Crowley tilted his head just right and his face became a renaissance all its own. 

“Perhaps…” Aziraphale said as the band wound down, the dancers pausing to catch their breaths behind him. “Perhaps I’ll see you soon?”

From this angle, Aziraphale could see the edges of Crowley’s eyes over the tops of his sunglasses but then he tipped his head back and they disappeared. “Perhaps you could stay,” Crowley repeated, sibilance drawn out between his teeth.

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Aziraphale said, ducking his head and stepping away. He drifted into the crowds, following the scent of fresh air to the propped open door and finding himself on the cool and winding street. Alone, he walked back to the bookshop and settled in for the night, wishing uselessly that things had gone differently. That he had let them be different for once.

**Author's Note:**

> Charles is in fact CT Onions, one of the final editors of the Oxford English Dictionary.  
Club 43 was a famous club in the 1920s in Soho
> 
> [come hang out on tumblr](https://summerofspock.tumblr.com)


End file.
